Message on the Mountain
by Ashlyn McKayla Ohm

Too trite, too terse, too stale, too small—ideas dangled in the air, yet I could hold none in my hands. I needed something to write, some prose to pin to paper. But again and again, my frantic fumblings ended with empty hands.

As always happens, doubt stalked on the heels of defeat.  What if all my ideas had vanished?  What if I had nothing left to say?

As any writer knows, this is the hiss from the empty hallways of the mind, the shadow specter that haunts—this notion that creativity, after all, might be a finite resource, that no matter how deep the well might seem to drop, one day I’ll dip my pen in ink and it will come up dry.  Was today the day?

I’d felt it before, the kinetic spark to unwind my words, so I laced up my shoes and went for a run.  The temperatures were unseasonably cool for spring in Arkansas, but the humidity was heavy, silver mist hovering over the newly green fields.  Up the mountain I ran, under the canopy of fresh-sprouting leaves—still fumbling, still flailing, still fearing.  Over my head, the ideas floated just out of reach, like the steely clouds in the sky.  But not a drop of rain fell.

I reached the top of the mountain—a wild and wooded place, where time and space intersect in odd coordinates.  And panting there, under the pine trees, I was captured by the thought of another mountain.  The story flashed before my eyes—Jesus wrapped in light, Transfiguration tremendous and terrifying, while the voice of God shook the hills.  Perhaps a weak parallel, but after all, wasn’t that what I’d done—come up this mountain to hear from God?

So what did I hear?

An echo of Scripture, John’s words to the church:  “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands, concerning the word of life—the life was made manifest, and we have seen it, and testify to it and proclaim to you the eternal life” (1 John 1:1-2 ESV).

John had bowed on the mountain.  He’d seen the Shekinah shatter the everyday like lightning, and He’d glimpsed the Son of God—more profoundly than I could ever hope to this side of Heaven.  And what did he find?  Not a fresh idea, not a brilliant concept, but the power of a Person—Jesus.  And decades later, when he penned this letter near the end of his life, his heart was still overflowing with the Man he fully met on the mountain.

I ran back down the slopes, back toward home.  The fog still swirled over the fields, but it was beginning to lift in my spirit.

So here I am, weaving these words while rain soundly soaks the world outside my window.  Showers of blessing, perhaps?  All I know is I don’t need a new idea; I need a new heart.  When all is said and done, my only offering is a simple song—the song of my Savior, the story of His sacrifice.  And with my fears and failures, mistakes and mishaps, I will continue telling what I have seen and heard.  Not new ideas, not trendy takes—just the old, old story of Love—still the best news I could ever bring.

A passionate follower of Jesus Christ, Ashlyn McKayla Ohm finds her writing calling where her heart for God and her love for His creation intersect. Born and raised in rural Arkansas on the shoulders of the Ouachita Mountains, she’s most at home where the streetlights die and the pavement ends.  She is the author of the devotional A Year in the Woods and is forever grateful that God has given her the gift of not only exploring His beautiful world but also using her words to prayerfully draw others to Him. Follow her adventures on her blog, Words from the Wilderness, or on Instagram and Facebook.

Mining the Moments for Joy
by Sue Fulmore

This morning I noticed the ghostly image, as the sun traced the outline of my window upon the sloped ceiling of my writing room. The edges were indistinct, soft.

Last night the sun slanted across our kitchen table, haloing the ordinary bowl of soup and freshly made biscuits. A simple meal turned elegant with the sun’s warm glow.

Maybe it is because, for the majority of the past two years, life has been lived within these four walls, that I am noticing more. Since there are fewer distractions from outside, fewer social engagements or calls for my attention, I begin to see the small, everyday moments. I am aware of how often I have passed by the small on my way to something bigger and better. This enforced slowing has taught me to remove my sandals and notice the moments of holiness right here in the ordinary.

It was only when God saw that Moses had stopped what he was doing and was paying attention, that He called to him from the burning bush.[i] This story makes me pause to wonder how often this has happened in my own life. I wonder how regularly have I been so intent on my plans, my efficiency in all things, that I fail to stop and take note.

I am learning to pause long enough to hear the inner rumblings of my heart and soul. The longings are making themselves heard as I spend time in stillness. The emotions I would normally push aside while I went on to the next project or chore, are now held up to the light and examined. I am learning more of what it means to “listen to my life” as Frederick Buechner says. I am starting to “see it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness…”[ii]

For the first time in many years, I have been bored. The days stretch out before me with no scaffolding or boundaries. There are times when the canyon between morning and evening seems too wide and too deep to traverse. Boredom becomes my teacher, asking me to pay attention to the often overlooked, sparking a desire to create and try new things.

I pay attention to the world outside my window. Every arrival of a new variety of bird is noted, their antics observed. I was on hand to witness the murmurings of flocks of cedar waxwings as they dipped and soared as one unit. I watch as they strip the mountain ash of its berries, becoming tipsy from the fermented fruit. As the sun goes down, I celebrate the intricate dark web of branches back-lit by cotton candy skies. Watching the trees for signs of life, I wait for the bursting open of the scales protecting the tender buds at just the right moment. I listen for the spring call of the chickadees, and look for the gradual browning of rabbit fur. I notice the squirrel outside the window, safe on his perch high in a tree, as he scolds the neighbor cat, and laugh at the absurdity.

Small children have always known how to pay attention to the little things. They are the ones who stop to watch the caterpillar make its way across the sidewalk, or get close to the ground to see the patterns in the thin layer of ice on the puddle. I feel like a child again and I search for all of the gifts wrapped into each moment by the Giver. Is this what Jesus means when He tells us to become like little children?[iii] That we pay attention to the moment we are in, searching for the sight of Him in the midst of the mess of where we are? Can we be like the children, welcome each day, each hour, and moment with trust, openness and hope?

This noticing, this paying attention is grounding me in the present. I am not looking back to the way things were, nor forward to what may be, but only allowing myself to root in the moment I am living. I am becoming like a child who only knows how to dwell in the now. I pray for daily bread, not weekly bread, and trust the good Father to supply the need of the moment.

I am realizing this is where joy resides.

Collectively we have become more aware of our fragility lately. Maybe for the first time in our lives we contemplate the number of our days as we see many around us succumbing to an illness, we never knew 2 years ago. It is often those who are on the threshold of death, who become most keenly aware of life. I read about an oncologist who tells his patients to start the day with this mantra, “I do not know what will happen next week or next year. But I know I have the gift of this day, and I will not waste it”.[iv] This outlook makes us laser-focused on today, and all the joy to be had from each moment it contains.

When each breath and each day are viewed as gifts we are awakened to all that is beautiful, good and true. We become aware of the ways God is bending toward us, attentive to our needs, in it all alongside us. It is in His presence, and ultimately nowhere else, where we find fullness of joy.

Today may we listen more closely to our lives and “touch, taste, smell our way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”[v]

[i] Exodus 3:4

[ii] Frederick Buechner, Now and Then: A Memoir of Vocation

[iii] Matthew 18:1-6

[iv] How to Overcome a Fear of Failure – The Atlantic

[v] Frederick Buechner, Now and Then: A Memoir of Vocation

Sue Fulmore is a freelance writer and speaker, seeking to use words to awaken mind and soul to the realities of the present.  Some of her work has been published at Red Letter Christians, The Perennial Gen, Convivium Magazine, Joyful Life Blog, and Asbury Seminary Soul Care Community. Like a prospector panning for gold, she uses her pen to uncover beauty and truth hidden just below the surface of our lives. She is the mother of two adult daughters and lives in sunny Alberta, Canada with her retired husband. You can find her at Instagram and www.suefulmore.com.

Sweat and Sacred Sunrise
by Leslie McLeod

When I head out to the gym in the morning, the sky is still dark, the stars fighting for the last word with the approaching dawn.

I don’t really like to exercise, but I like the feeling a good workout gives me. So I crawl out of bed, swap PJs for yoga pants and a sweatshirt, then drive half-awake to my small group training session, just 10 minutes away.

When I’m running late, I can usually grab a corner space among all the other women focused on their fitness.

But a secret reward awaits me when I show up early.

I get to claim my favorite spot at the end of the corridor across from the gym’s east-facing front window. As we warm up and stretch, I watch as shades of deep indigo and gray gradually surrender to a spectacular light show, a slow explosion of shimmering crimson and gold. The powerful beauty infuses my cardio with energy, my muscles with strength, my spirit with delight. Fiery brilliance of sunrise subsides, breathless, into gentle pastels…lilac, pink, coral. As we finish our workout, the sky settles on a hue barely blue, silhouetting the trees and street signs outside.

Working out is drudgery, no question. But for those few moments, my sweat has been sanctified by extravagant, fleeting glory. I tuck away the memory of this morning gift along with my water bottle and towel, then step out into the day with a hallelujah smile.

Living near the Southern California coast, Leslie’s artistic leanings balance her role as co-owner of a tech company with her husband. She picks up her pen again after a hiatus to raise their two children and develop a passion for painting. Having lost her parents a few years ago, she is writing a book to help other women walk through that painful season without the added burden of unresolved relationship regret. Leslie also writes articles, poetry, and a blog. She loves to share the voice of her soul’s Beloved. She writes and paints at www.lamcleod.com and you can connect with her on Facebook and Instagram.

The Spiritual Practice of Gardening
by Jody L. Collins

“The seed catalogues are a further promise of warm days to come. I class them as fiction and love to read them. Oh, the beautiful roses and tall spikes of delphinium and the flowering bushes-not to mention the carrots as big as telephone poles and the peas that practically shell themselves… We get some pretty fine vegetables and some nice flowers, but they definitely do not resemble the champion parade in the catalogues.”           Gladys Taber, ‘Stillmeadow Seasons’

* * * * * * * *

I am a Southern California girl, born and raised, transplanted 25 years ago to the Pacific Northwest near Seattle.  The weather is starkly different than my old Orange County clime. There are no, ahem, seasons in Southern California, only a variation on the words ‘sunny’, ‘partially sunny’, ‘mostly sunny’, ‘warm’ and ‘cool’.  Flowers bloom year ’round, vegetables can be picked at any time and trees never drop their leaves.

I’ve grown to love the weather changes here in this Northwest corner of the world where there are definitely seasons –fulsome Springs, rich, green Summers, colorful Autumns and the bare bones gray of Winter.

Of course, this particular location on the globe precludes a lot of extra care in gardening and upkeep. My husband and I spent a few hours outside the other day in unseasonably warm March weather to tackle the pruning of our trees. There are no buds yet on the empty, gray branches of our maples and magnolia, so the timing is right for this necessary husbandry. In the backyard, buds are just surfacing on the lilacs and the forsythia are threatening to burst into yellow like an invisible promise. We need to hurry–blooming is in their botanical blood and the flowers will come whether we prune or not.

Inside where it was warm I pondered the view to my back yard and the bare spot of my vegetable garden. I’m in more of a pondering stage about that space right now–do I REALLY want to invest in the time it takes to get that spinach in this year? If I do, should I add carrots and beets like last time? The lettuce worked well, the potatoes took off, there’s even leftover garlic and the Mint that Will Not Die.

The thing about seeds is, given soil, scattering, sunshine and water they’ll pretty much grow without looking. That’s always a startling miracle to me—that I would plant a zucchini or lemon cucumber seed and 2 weeks later, up comes that lime green curl, sprouts pushing through the dirt and why, look at that! Overnight it’s a vine.

(And then of course, you have more zucchini and cucumbers than you know what to do with, which is how you meet your neighbors. But that’s another post….)

I was thinking about my life and growth in Jesus being like that.  When He plants the bare shell of a seed with an idea or a dream, I really have to trust He will do what he says. There is life in the seed.

Regardless of the weather, regardless of the bleak, bare soil, there is hope.  There is life. Besides the hope, there is power for growth in the seeds; I can’t do anything about making them grow.  Nothing.  Just rest and trust it will happen.  In God’s time, by His power.

Likewise, when God plants something in our lives, a dream, a desire, a gift, He intends for it to grow. I have despaired often that the changes and growth I want to see in my life often bring me back to repetitive prayers and the question of whether what God has said will ever come to pass. But its clear, his promises come in their own time. We really can’t force them, we can only make room, let God water the seed, and live in the light of His Son while God brings the miracle.

What gift or promise has God planted in your life? What dreams are you living into right now? If it is God, it will grow.  

* * * * * * * * * *

“It is all very well to keep other men’s vineyards, but we must not neglect our own spiritual growth and ripening.  Why should it always be winter time in our hearts?  We must have our seed time, it true, but O for a spring time–yea, a summer season, which shall give promise of an early harvest.  If we would ripen in grace, we must live near to Jesus –in his presence-ripened by the sunshine of his smiles.”

CH Spurgeon, Morning by Morning

Jody Collins is a blatant philologist and poetry lover living in the Pacific Northwest with her very patient husband. She uses both gardening and writing as therapy, often featuring her 6 grandchildren, whom she thanks God for daily. Jody’s been penning words since Smith-Corona typewriters graced the desks of her middle school, but nowadays you can find her thoughts at www.jodyleecollins.com.  Twitter: @JodyLeeCollins2  Instagram: @jody_lee_collins